Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
As we cycle through small towns here, the kids still laugh and shout at us. They come running out from
their concrete houses to wave, shout “hello,” and hold out their hands to slap us five. (Sometimes they miss
and hit our handlebars, sending us wobbling off the road until we recover.) In one larger village, kids lined
the road for a hundred yards or so. “It's like the bloody Tour de France,” shouted one of the Australian lads
as we sped through the gauntlet, acknowledging our fans.
Contrary to Herr's experience, the adults are also friendly. They smile warmly at us as we pass. When
we stop to buy tea at roadside stands, people invite us to use the toilets in their little houses. It occurs to
me that the middle-aged Vietnamese we see would have been children back when Herr was riding in that
convoy.
“It's sort of surprising they're so nice to westerners, after everything that's happened,” Tim reflected one
day as we cycled along.
“Maybe it's because they won,” I theorize. “No insecurities here. They whupped France, and then when
France tagged out they whupped America, too. So they're, like, 'Hey, losers! Welcome back! Now spend
some money.'”
WE'RE coming into the homestretch of the bike tour. I'm fitter and stronger—to the extent that I can now
bike for ten miles breathing calmly through my nose. I have little trouble staying within hailing distance
of the front of the pack so long as we're riding on flat ground. I've also discovered a cheat: I covertly take
some pseudoephedrine-infused cold medicine before each ride, for an energy boost.
It's the hills, though, that separate the wheat from the chaff. I can't keep pace with the quicker riders
when we hit an incline—even with the aid of my performance-enhancing substance. It's been galling me.
The Australian blokes go out drinking every night and stumble into the van each morning looking like
corpses. “Where were you last night?” I'll ask them. “We were at this duuuubious bar,” they'll drawl, “and
then we met these girls. . . .” The story goes on from there. I figure there's no way they'll be able to bike in
this condition, but they always hop right on and start pedaling happily. At the day's first checkpoint, they'll
smoke a cigarette. At lunch, they'll drink a couple of beers, toasting each other with “Up your bum!” and
“Here's blood in your undies!” And yet none of it matters—I'm no match for them the moment we start
climbing.
Our last big challenge is to bike over the Dran Pass, in southern Vietnam. It's fifteen miles of switchbacks
up steep mountainside. I'm determined to make it all the way to the top without giving up, and to keep pace
with the lead group.
Just halfway up, though, and already dropping behind, I have nothing left in the tank. I can see the pack
of Canadians and Aussies five switchbacks above me. There are another ten switchbacks between them and
the summit. I find myself whispering, “Right, left, right, left,” as I pump the pedals. I'm in the lowest gear,
moving slower than I would if I got off and walked.
When you're struggling on a bike, it's amazing how attuned you become to things like wind direction
and velocity. Or small bumps in the road. Or tiny changes in the grade of the ascent. In a car, you don't
notice this stuff at all. But each time the breeze shifts into my face, or the hill gets a tick steeper, I become
acutely aware of the adverse effect on my quadriceps.
Three-quarters of the way up, the support van passes me with all the quitters inside. Rebecca leans out
the window and waves. I'm expecting a “Way to go!” or a “Keep it up!” but instead she shouts, “It's really
comfortable in the vaaaaaaaan!” as the vehicle turns a corner out of sight.
At this very moment, it begins to rain. A tropical rain with thumb-thick drops. My pedals and handlebars
are getting slippery, but the rain feels wonderful on my scorching muscles. After a few minutes, the down-
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